The Devil's Root
by FrancesOsgood
Summary: A strange string of what appear to be supernatural murders put Sherlock and John up against Satan himself. As can be guessed, it's hell.
1. Prologue

**The Devil's Root**

John Watson shifted the bag of groceries from his right hand to his left in order to open the front door of 221B Baker Street. He was damp from a sudden drizzle and irritable at having had to go out in the first place

He shifted the grocery bag again as he entered the building and began to climb up the stairs toward the flat he shared with the world's only consulting detective. Rounding the corner into their shared rooms, he mumbled absently under his breath about the "pompous git" who "couldn't be bothered to pick up a carton of milk after leaving the last one sitting on the mantelpiece. For five days."

John set the bag down on one of the few clear spaces on the kitchen table and began to empty its contents. The tea went into the tin above the cup rack, the crisps went into the empty stockpot in the back of the cupboard where Sherlock wasn't likely to find them, and the milk went into the…

Just in front of the refrigerator, John stepped on something that gave a loud crunch. He looked down and saw shards of glass, several of which had been ground to dust under his boot. There were larger pieces in the floor beyond the refrigerator and in front of the sink. He checked the kitchen window, but the panes were intact. Looking farther to his right, John saw a large pool of what looked like bright red blood spreading from the edge of the floor to beneath the cluttered table.

"Sherlock?" called John, not quite alarmed. There was no answer. He called a second time, but there was still no response. "Sherlock!" he called again, this time with greater urgency. When he received no answer, he tossed the milk carton onto the counter and dashed out of the kitchen.

"Sherlock, answer me!" he yelled as he ran down the hall. A dozen horrific scenarios played out in his mind as he desperately searched the flat. He knew Sherlock had more than a few enemies, most of whom would have no trouble at all bringing harm to the detective. Had one of them broken into the flat and hurt or, John gulped hard at the thought, _murdered_ Sherlock? A worse thought then occurred to him and made his blood run cold. Was the murderer still in the flat? Was he waiting for him? John stopped in his tracks by the bathroom door. He could see a movement of shadow under the door. Someone was in the bathroom. John took a quiet step back and grabbed the first large thing he could find. Steeling himself, he rushed forward and flung open the bathroom door.

Sherlock was seated on the edge of the tub with a bloodstained flannel wrapped around his right hand.

"Oh good, you're here," he said flatly. "I was going to text you, but I'm rubbish at texting with only my left hand. What are you doing with that femur?"

"Wh—what? You're…are you…what happened?" sputtered John.

Sherlock looked at his friend, confused for a moment. "Oh, this?" he said, indicating his wrapped hand. "I had a bit of an accident. Apparently beakers don't respond well to being put into the microwave. It shattered right in my hand. I think I've stopped the bleeding, but I need you to stitch me up. You still haven't answered my question about what you're doing with Old Mrs. Darvish's leg bone."

John let the long bone slip from his fingers and fall with a clatter to the floor. He plopped down beside Sherlock on the side of the tub and put his head in his hands.

"I thought…I thought…"

"You thought? You thought what?" asked Sherlock, annoyed. "Really John, you must be more specific. I'm brilliant, yes, but I can't read your mind. Most of the time. No, I take that back. I usually know exactly what you're thinking. However, when you just sit there babbling-"

"I thought you had been murdered!" John shouted, interrupting Sherlock's monologue.

The detective looked taken aback. "Why would you think that?"

John looked at his friend incredulously. "Because there is a large pool of blood all over the bloody kitchen floor!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, now you're just being redundant," scoffed Sherlock. "If there is blood all over the floor, of course it's bloody."

"You know what I mean, you arrogant arse. I thought someone had come in and tried to murder you!"

"And you were coming in here with Mrs. Darvish's femur to finish the job? Well bravo for me and my choice of flat-mates. Are you going to stitch me, or are you just going to sit there with your mouth bobbing open like a stupid goldfish?"

John shook his head and shakily stood to fetch his medical bag. "You are impossible," he told his friend. "Absolutely impossible."

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock. "That's what I've been told. Did you remember to get milk?"

* * *

"What are you working on?" Sherlock asked later that same morning as John clacked away at the keyboard of his laptop.

"I'm blogging," answered John, not looking up.

"About?" asked the detective.

"The case of that poor ginger fellow who got duped by those comic book thieves who were tunneling from his cellar into the vault next door."

It had been an odd case. The thieves had convinced the red-haired man he was part of a secret society in order to get him out of his shop so they could break into the vault and steal a collection of rare comic books.

"I still find it hard to believe that a silly cartoon book can be worth so much money," grumbled Sherlock.

John wanted to argue with Sherlock about rarity and collectability and how comic books were much more than "cartoons," but he knew it would be of little use where Sherlock was concerned. He still hadn't managed to completely convince him that Pluto was no longer a planet.

"What are you calling this one?" Sherlock questioned.

John smiled. "I've called it _The Red-headed League of Extraordinary Gentlemen._" He sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with himself. Sherlock groaned.

"Are people still reading that ridiculous thing-" Sherlock's rant was interrupted by his phone alerting him to a text message. He whipped it out of his pocket and looked at the message on the screen.

-Something very interesting at the morgue. Come and see. MH

Sherlock frowned and typed back.

-Show me now. SH

The response came in the form of a picture just a few moments later: a dead body with no visible wounds, perfectly normal as far as dead bodies go, except for its face. The face was contorted and frozen into an expression of sheer horror. Sherlock smiled and sent another message.

-On my way. SH

* * *

**A/N:**

**You have asked for more and I am delivering. This will be a multi-chapter fic, and I'll try to settle into a regular update pattern. We'll just have to see how well my Muse cooperates.**

**We have John (Yay)! I hope to have all the faves in this one, at least a little bit. Let me now who you want to see and I'll try to get them in.**

**As always, comments are always cherished and adored like favorite children. Let me know what's on your lovely little minds!**

**Happy reading! **

**Fanny**

**Playlist: **

**Moon Ghost Waltz- Michael Hoppe**

**America- Imagine Dragons**

**I'll Take You There- David Bowie**


	2. Chapter One

The Devil's Root

Chapter One

Molly Hooper and Inspector Lestrade were waiting in the morgue when Sherlock burst through the double doors with John Watson on his heels.

"Morning, Molly, Grant," he called cheerfully as he swept past them to look at the grey figure on the slab. The victim, a man in his early forties, stared up at him unblinking. His lips were blue-grey and twisted into a horrible grimace. He had the look of someone who had just been given a fright, as if he had been caught in a moment of sheer terror and died with his face frozen that way.

"My name is Greg," grumbled Lestrade.

"Whatever," Sherlock answered without looking up. "What can you tell me about this fellow?'

Lestrade cleared his throat and walked over to where the detective stood hunched over the body. He was peering into one of the victim's eyes through a small retractable magnifier.

"We know his name is Owen St. George," began the Inspector. "He was an accountant with the Farnsworth Firm. No wife or significant other that we know of. Lived alone in Hoxton."

"What about you, Molly?" asked Sherlock. "What do you make of this?"

The pathologist shrugged. "I've never seen anything like it," she answered. "Whatever it was that killed him, I can't seem to find it."

"Dr. Watson?" Sherlock turned to his friend. "Diagnosis?"

John stepped closer and examined the body. He studied the eyes, the lips and chest.

"At first glance I would have thought heart attack," said the doctor. "The blue tinge around the mouth suggests oxygen deprivation. No skin mottling though."

"No, I've checked," said Molly. "No heart attack or stroke or undiagnosed conditions; he was in relatively perfect health."

"And no poisons have been detected, I take it," stated Sherlock.

"That's right," Molly answered. "No poisons, toxins, or drugs of any kind have shown up in his system."

Sherlock frowned and peered closer at the dead man. "Interesting," he said.

"No," interrupted Lestrade. "What's interesting is the story his friend told of how he died."

Sherlock looked up with his brow furrowed. "His friend? Who?" he asked.

"Guy by the name of Trent Mortimer," answered the Inspector. "He's a real whack-job. He said his friend here was killed by an evil spirit."

Molly shuddered and turned away and Sherlock and John stared at Lestrade.

"What did you say?" asked the detective.

"Mortimer says his friend was killed by an evil spirit. Isn't that ridiculous?" Lestrade repeated with a laugh.

"Where is Mr. Mortimer now, Inspector?" Sherlock asked.

"At home I guess, in Hampstead," answered Lestrade. "There was no evidence to suggest homicide, so we had to let him go. He was a wreck anyway. He kept railing on about how his friend had tried to warn him before he died."

"And you haven't investigated further?" questioned John.

"We questioned Mortimer as much as we could, Dr.," answered the Inspector. "Without a definite cause of death, there's not much more we could do. Besides, we're Scotland Yard, not Ghost Hunters."

Sherlock turned and stalked out of the room without a word and the Inspector stared after him, bewildered. John nodded to Molly and Lestrade and then ran to catch up with the detective.

"Going to talk to Mortimer?" he asked as they left St. Bart's and hailed a cab.

"Very good, John," Sherlock cooed sarcastically. "I guess it's not true what they say about old dogs and new tricks,"

"Whatever," John muttered, clearly dismissing his friend's attempt to ruffle him. A cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock and John slid into the back seat. Sherlock barked directions to the driver before settling into his seat.

"What do you think about Mortimer's story?" asked John when they were on their way.

Sherlock looked out the window as the city whizzed past. "I think," he began, "either he's crazy or he's lying. A conversation with Mr. Mortimer should clear up rather definitively which one he is."

John nodded and leaned back against the seat as the cab wove through the crowded streets toward Hampstead.

* * *

It didn't take long for the detective to track down Mr. Mortimer. After questioning at the local pub, the detective and the doctor were pointed toward a newly remodeled housing unit in a particularly fashionable area of the neighborhood.

"Nice," noted John as they looked up at the stone building with large Doric columns and perfectly symmetrical topiaries.

Sherlock rang the buzzer and looked up at the security camera overhead and smiled.

"Name please," came a tinny voice over the intercom.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered, holding up the marker he had swiped from the Inspector. "This is Sergeant Donovan," he continued, indicating John. "We're here to speak to Mr. Mortimer about his friend, Mr. St. George."

"One moment please," said the intercom voice.

"Would you stop stealing those?" John complained.

Sherlock held up Lestrade's marker. "What, this?" he asked and grunted. "Gary has more."

John shook his head. "Well, at least stop making me be Donovan," he hissed as the intercom buzzed and crackled and the voice came back on.

"Mr. Mortimer says to come right up, Inspector."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. He heard the door lock click and held it open for John. "After you, Sergeant Donovan," he teased.

"Shut up," muttered John.

* * *

"You're not Lestrade," said Trent Mortimer when he opened the door and looked at the two men standing in the hall.

"No," replied Sherlock. "My name is Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson. We're here to ask you a few questions about the death of Owen St. George."

"I've already told the police everything and they pretty much laughed in my face, so go away and leave me alone." Mr. Mortimer began to close the door, but Sherlock blocked it with his foot.

"We believe you though, Mr. Mortimer," he said. "We just want to hear it from you. Right, Dr. Watson?"

"Um…oh. Yes," said John, catching on. "We are very interested in hearing your story."

Mr. Mortimer didn't look convinced. "You sure you aren't just here to laugh at me?" he asked.

"You have our word as gentlemen, Mr. Mortimer," replied Sherlock. He looked at John who smiled and nodded his agreement.

"All right then. Come in." Mortimer opened the door and let them enter his flat. It was large and tidy with new furnishings, high-end finishes and sparkling updated appliances. Sherlock noticed the lingering scent of ladies' perfume, _Enchantment_, as well as several fashion magazines in a basket near the sofa.

"Your girlfriend isn't here?" he asked.

Mortimer looked startled. "How did—No, she isn't here. She's at work."

Sherlock studied Mortimer carefully. He was a tall, slim, not unattractive man in his mid to late forties. He had a fairly muscular build but slightly thinning hair. His blue slacks were nicely tailored, his pinstriped shirt was neatly pressed, and his shoes were polished to a shine.

"What sort of office work do you do, Mr. Mortimer?" asked the detective, having deduced his occupation by simply giving him the once-over.

"I'm a data entry clerk for Cranford and Company," the man answered.

Sherlock looked around thoughtfully. "Must pay unusually well," he said.

"Not at all-" Mortimer began but stopped when he caught the detective's meaning. "This is my girlfriend's place," he said, embarrassed. "She's the one with the posh job. She's a graphic designer."

"Ah, I see," said Sherlock. He gave a slight nod to John and began to aimlessly wander about, picking up and examining things as he went.

"So…" sighed John. "Mr. Mortimer, how did you know Owen St. George?"

Mortimer shifted uncomfortably before answering. "We were both in the Society," he said finally.

"Society?" echoed John.

"Yes, we investigated things."

"What sort of things?" asked Sherlock as he picked up a thick book and flipped through it.

Mortimer drew in a long breath and released it. "We investigated hauntings. You know, ghosts and such. Just a hobby really. We never found much until…" His voice trailed off.

"A paranormal society then," stated Sherlock and Mortimer nodded. "And now you think one of the spirits you investigated killed your friend?"

"I know it sounds crazy," the man gushed. "But I swear it's true. I saw what happened!"

"Tell us what happened, Mr. Mortimer," urged the detective. Mortimer sat down on the sofa and retold the story he had shared with Lestrade earlier.

"I got a call Thursday night from Owen. He sounded upset. Said he needed to speak to me. That it was urgent. So I met him at our headquarters." Mortimer paused and shook his head. "I'd never seen Owen like that. He was so shaken up. I asked him what was wrong and he said that we had to stop the investigations. When I asked why, he didn't want to say at first, but I kept needling him. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe that's the reason for what happened next."

"What happened next?" John asked gently. Mortimer took a deep breath and continued.

"Owen said he'd had a premonition. He said an evil spirit warned him that if the investigations didn't stop that he would die. While he was still speaking, he went stark white, like he was seeing something. I didn't see anything, and I asked him what it was and he just said, 'No." Just that. 'No.' Then he started convulsing and collapsed. I called the ambulance and tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late. Owen was dead."

"You didn't see anything else?" John asked. "No one else was there?"

Mortimer shook his head.

"Do you know of anyone who would want Mr. St. George dead?" asked Sherlock.

Mortimer shook his head again. "No," he answered. "Everyone liked Owen. He was a great guy and a terrific friend. I tell you, I never would have believed something like this if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!"

Sherlock and John looked questioningly at one another before leaving Mr. Mortimer with instructions to get in touch if he thought of anything else that might be important.

* * *

"So, what do you think?" asked John when they were out in the hall.

"It's certainly peculiar," Sherlock replied and headed for the exit. "Mortimer seems absolutely convinced of this evil spirit business."

"Perhaps we should question the other members of the Society," offered John.

"Yes, you do that, John," said Sherlock. "I'm going to go see what I can find in the home of Mr. St. George." He flagged down a cab and hopped inside. "You'll have to get the next one," he said. "This one's mine."

John shook his head as the cab drove away.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Next time: Inside The London Advanced Paranormal Investigation Society**

**Playlist:**

**I Appear Missing- Queens of the Stone Age**

**Standing the Storm- William Joseph**

**The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell- *David Bowie**

**Comments are to me what nicotine is to Sherlock. Hook me up, please!**

***There's always Bowie playing. Always.**


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